


Patronus

by DesdemonaKaylose



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Did We Just Have Tea With an Eldritch Abomination?, Gen, Kaon City, Rung makes his TFP debut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-25 07:43:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17721011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesdemonaKaylose/pseuds/DesdemonaKaylose
Summary: A delicate white hand clasped the edge of the unit, and Megatron went stock still. There was barely a moment to process the pall of silent dread that fell before a second hand came up, and then the presumed-autobot levered himself upright with a small hum of effort.Megatron slowly pivoted. “Rung,” he said, “what a pleasure it is to see you, after so long.”





	Patronus

**Author's Note:**

> my ongoing mission: to hijack every narrative so that I can talk about Rung & Decepticons

Knockout sashayed onto the bridge at a 10.0 on the starscream smugness scale (where a ten represents Starscream reminding anyone who will listen that he once assassinated the entire sitting senate and a one represents Optimus Prime’s complete and utter lack of irony while pontificating on a battle field). Knockout’s usual level, for clarification, rested at the comfortable simmer of an 8.5.

His glittering pedes beat out a leisurely swagger as the containment unit, its outside blackened like a fired coffin, dragged behind him kicking up sparks. Soundwave regretfully resigned himself to a fifteen percent reduction in productivity and made a note to have the drones buff that out later.

“My liege,” Knockout said, addressing Megatron at the captain’s station, “I come bearing a gift for you, our magnificent leader, which I present with no small amount of _humble_   pleasure.”

As was ever the case, the only people who bothered citing their humility were those currently riding the highest possible smugness quotient. As Megatron turned from his station, Soundwave quickly flashed a 10.0 [star] across his faceplate, and watched the minute flicker of amusement in his liege’s bearing.

“Yes, Knockout,” Megatron drawled, “what is it, then? Another quaint human vehicle for your _thorough_ private inspection?

Knockout cleared his vocoder uneasily. “Ah,” he said, “no, my lord. As a matter of fact, I’ve captured you an autobot!”

In the flare of surprise that washed through the bridge’s collective EM field, Knockout threw open the containment unit and settled back with one servo on his hip, examining the fine-tipped digits of his other. “Strange little thing,” he said, “I snatched him off the side of a mountain, easy as you please.  Of course he was no match for my stunning swiftness.”

Soundwave drifted closer. A new autobot in the Prime’s vanguard spelled an unpleasant shift in the tide of engagement. For every single autobot on the field of play, Starscream had typically allotted five vehicons to counter. His various replacements had played with the numbers, but Starscream’s efficiency in that regard had yet to be eclipsed. No one protected their assets quite like Starscream.

Megatron stiffened. He had been approaching the unit at a leisurely pace, allowing Knockout to wax eloquent about his own speed and the incapability of autobot road frames to counter it, while he got a look at what was inside. But the moment he drew within reach, his armor contracted around his protoform like Soundwave had only seen it do a handful of times since Megatron was a fresh faced gladiatorial recruit still learning the shape of the arena.

“Get him out,” Megatron said, in a low, dangerous tone.

“I—pardon?” Knockout said.

Megatron whirled. “Get him out!” he roared, swiping a claw through the air. “Quickly, you imbecile, before he—”

A delicate white hand clasped the edge of the unit, and Megatron went stock still. Soundwave had barely a moment to process the pall of silent dread as a second hand came up, and the presumed-autobot levered himself upright in the unit with a small hum of effort.

Megatron slowly pivoted. “ _Rung_ ,” he said, “what a _pleasure_ it is to see you, after so long.”

Soundwave disengaged laserbeak’s activation protocols and straightened. After the last time they had seen each other, it was understandable that Megatron would be uneasy. Soundwave, of course, did not deem it necessary to panic yet. But then Megatron's ruthless clarity of vision had always become jumbled when Rung stepped into the frame. Even so it was disorienting—to see a once familiar face in so alien a setting, to find so much of oneself changed, and yet the very shape of one’s memory unaltered by time. Rung adjusted his spectacles.

Still barely as large as a two-wheeler, the millennia and the war did not seem to have changed Rung in the slightest. No hint of integrated weaponry in his slight frame. No sign of a single patched component.

“My dear Megatronus,” he said, and lifted a hand, which Megatron rushed to take. The Decepticon general carefully guided Rung to his pedes, one steadying palm against his waist. As he stood, Rung gave the bridge a vague but interested once over, eyes at last lighting on Soundwave. “Ah!” he said, “And young Soundwave. Still thick as thieves I see.”

For the first time in a long time, Soundwave regretted his vows. He flashed a [smile] at Rung and watched as Rung’s countenance drifted from curiosity to concern.

“Are you quite alright, my dear?” he asked.

“Soundwave has taken a vow of silence,” Megatron quickly filled in, “it’s all perfectly—perfectly normal. Yes. But what about you, is there anything I can do for you? Please, you’re welcome to anything my ship can offer—”

“Your ship!” Rung said, with mild surprise. “Is this _your_ ship? My my, you have gotten up in the world haven’t you? I had no idea you’d made such an advancement. You must be very proud.”

He said this with such sincere warmth than several vehicons immediately started shifting uncomfortably in the navigation pit. Knockout gave the whole scene a dumbfounded stare.

“I haven’t seen you since that unpleasantness in my office after the fifty-fourth championship tournament. How are you doing? Have you found a primary practitioner? I haven’t heard from you in so long.”

“Oh,” Knockout said, visibly relieved to have something to contribute, “I’m his—”

“ _Knockout_ ,” Megatron snapped, from between denta gritted into something approximating a smile, “please leave.”

Hopelessly bewildered, Knockout’s mouth silently formed the word “ _please?”_

Soundwave took stock of the situation. The vehicons were growing restless with confusion, and Knockout was almost certainly about to say something that would earn them all Rung’s profound disapproval, and aside from all that, the chances of anything beneficial to the war effort being accomplished while Rung was on the ship were rapidly dropping.

He commed Megatron. _Soundwave: escort Rung to mess hall._

“A fine idea, Soundwave,” Megatron said. “Rung, won’t you let Soundwave escort you to the mess? I’m sure we can find something suitable to your preferences.”

Rung favored Megatron with a warm smile, taking his hand and patting it gently. “Of course, my dear. I wouldn’t want to distract you while you’re at work. But we really _should_ make time to catch up. Don’t turn your lights out for the night until I’ve had a chance to make you some tea. I know I have one of those ores you like tucked around here somewhere…”

Megatron extricated himself with painstaking care. “If you insist,” he said, weakly. And then, gaze snapping over to where Knockout was making a muffled little noise of delight, he snapped, “Knockout, you—”

“Oh, an excellent idea,” Rung said, “I _should_ speak to your primary. I want to make sure you’re not throwing your weight around with the medics again.” Flashing Knockout a conspiratorial little look, he added, “They’re always _so_ quick to clear him when he flashes that gladiator charm, bless their sparks.”

Megatron had started to boil. Soundwave rushed to herd everyone off the bridge, shoving none-too-gently at Knockout’s back with a data cable until the medic finally broke out of his wide-eyed stupor. He did not stop pushing until they all turned a corner and could no longer see the violet glow of the bridge.

Knockout cleared his throat. “I, ah,” he said, “I’m sorry I mistook you for an autobot. I had no idea you were an… associate… of Lord Megatron’s.”

“I’m afraid I have no idea what an autobot is,” Rung said, “but it’s quite alright. It’s been a very long time since I was in the company of Cybertronians. I left the planet under some duress.” He cocked his head thoughtfully. “I had no idea Earth was a site of interest to Cybertron these days.”

“Well, ever since _Prime_ got here,” Knockout started, but Rung had already begun beaming radiant pleasure from the blue crackle of his chest-window. Soundwave’s datacables twitched in their housing. It was not in the Decepticon army’s best interest for Optimus Prime to be reacquainted with Rung.

“Orion is here as well?” Rung said. “My goodness this _is_ the little hub now isn’t it? I shall have to visit him before he leaves.”

“Er,” Knockout said. “What were _you_ doing on Earth?”

“Oh, I come by to see my spark brother periodically,” Rung said. “He still won’t speak to me, he’s an awfully sore loser. We don’t see eye to eye about most things, but kinship is kinship! One of these days he’ll have to come around.”

Soundwave’s logic unit cast around for a value to substitute for [spark brother] and came up with something that caused him to dump the entire process immediately out of self preservation.

“I _do_ wish he would give up this silly thing and come home,” Rung was saying, to Knockout’s bemusement.

Soundwave sped up his pace. The mess hall was only a little farther, and then he could shake off Knockout and focus on making Rung as comfortable as possible for the length of his visit. This would engender good will, prevent difficult questions from arising, and also provide Soundwave with the opportunity to have a cup of that tea even Swindle hadn’t been able to allocate for him since the war broke out.

Several vehicons looked up in nervous uncertainty as the two officers entered the mess without prelude or warning. Someone fumbled their fuel cube. To the rank and file, of course, Rung was merely an incongruous footnote to the episode. They hurriedly cleared a path to the dispensary, abandoning their own positions in line as Knockout waltzed through.

“How _do_ you know Megatron?” Knockout asked, casting a thoughtful glance back over his shoulder.

Rung grinned. For the first time, in the edges of his expression there was a glint of well-meaning mischief. “Have you ever been to Kaon, dear?”

Knockout frowned. “Sure, a long time ago.”

Rung flicked open his hand as if he were casting an incendiary into a well, and all around them white-grey daylight swallowed the Nemesis. Vehicons startled and transformed their weaponry, aiming wildly at nothing but rough-hewn streets.

“How…” Knockout said, twisting back to stare at the orbiting hedonias, at the transparent walkways ribbed like the chests of decaying vertebrates.

A pang of something like nostalgia darkened Soundwave’s spark. Standing here once again was as if drinking the memory of lost days in a slow, long sip. Here they had walked, talking of revolution. Here they had listened to the singing in the syk dens, the laughter of laborers swigging engex so thick and bitter it was almost indistinguishable from oil. Cybertron: alive.

All of it revolved around Rung, who was so small and light that he could barely be seen among the heavy frames of miners and load-haulers. Shades of the long dead moved around him, passing through the bodies of the living. The data of the projection was a vid sim, of course, but the method of the projection itself eluded Soundwave.

It was also deeply unusual in that it occupied a full 160 degrees of action, as if Rung indeed had optics in the back of his helm.

Rung stepped out of himself, and left a shade behind.  A perfect copy, as insubstantial as all the rest.

“Let’s see,” said the real Rung, tapping his chin as he considered the glowing grey sky. “This was just after the quake in Nyon, and I had closed up my practice in Rodion to lend aid there at the request of an old friend. We were passing through Kaon en route to the disaster—there was a comet shower the evening we arrived at the city limits—”

The sky glowed, and in the thickness of the atmosphere a thousand blazing pinpricks of fire shown through.

“At this moment a femme on the fourth floor of the oldest bathhouse in the city had just broken her only serving jug—the foreman at the 75th mining shaft won the grand prize in the Pit betting pool and gave the winnings to his protégé, who was courting a conjunx from the next shaft over—they had never seen each other’s faces, but they spoke through the ventilation of approaching comets and fine engex—”

With each point of reference, light glowed in the city. A window, above a bath house where Soundwave had once been taken after a successful match for the rare luxury of having gore fully stripped from his joints. A bot under the shade of a sagging lintel, surrounded by crowing friends. A heavy laborer gazing wistfully at a display of fine foreign goods, one clear jug shining like starlight in the grey afternoon.

And then, in the midst of the bustle, bodies streaming away from him: Megatronus.

Once, in the shadows outside a rusted-out service station that had served as their meeting place in Iacon, Soundwave had overheard Orion Pax say in tones of exhausted accusation, “You want to make the whole world another Kaon!”

And indeed, wherever Megatronus went, Kaon seemed to go with him.

The city street moved with Megatronus. It ebbed and waxed around his presence like a great riotous sea, enervated by the force of him. They loved a champion here— _their_ champion, one of their own, once a miner and now a star known as far as Iacon. These were the early days, before the network sponsors turned nervous at the edge of Megatronus’ smile and the wind from Iacon began to turn chill.

There was a murmur of uncertainty from the vehicons as they drew back instinctively from the specter of their liege—though he was smaller and more golden then, glowing and scuffed and scarred—and Soundwave registered disharmony from the two eons of Megatron’s people. The past leaning in; the present recoiling. The disharmony itself strained his emotional core processor, which struggled to make sense of [n] = -[n]. Wasn’t this army as much Megatron’s as Kaon had been Megatronus’? Perhaps more? After all, Megatron’s scientists had made the vehicons, nearly all of them who yet survived, from the patterns of long dead Kaonites. How could [n^2] = - [n] ?

The specter of Rung leaned over the booth of a textile merchant selling polishing cloths of varying quality. His small leg kicked up as he leaned forward, reaching for something.

A pair of shiny, burly four-wheelers approached Megatronus from the streetside, shoving and kicking their way through the crowd. An old, primal dread pinged down Soundwave’s spine. With the spin of a t-cog, those arms would transform back to reveal blistering plasma prods, the echo of their touch crackling even now over Soundwave’s memory. No doubt Megatronus had slipped free of the compound again, as he had been wont to do in those days, without the permission of his handlers. Some gladiators joined the compound freely, but there was little freedom within the walls of the compound. You worked for your fuel, you took your bouts, and then one day when your gears were too stripped to be repaired anymore, you were released onto the streets with no payment but your worn-down frame. But it was no worse than mining, if you survived the first fight, and at least you got to see the sun.

Knockout peered past Rung’s shoulder. “Why is everyone scattering like that? They’re hardly bigger than most of the laborers.”

“Hm?” Rung said. He glanced back at Knockout with an expression of vague curiosity. “You know, I have no idea. I suppose it’s because they’re very rude. It’s best to avoid rude people, they can be vexing to the spirit.”

The plating of one burly arm rippled back, and a bold of electricity fizzled between the tines of the prod.

Soundwave played the lightning bolt strike from a human cartoon across his visor. Knockout winced at the cracking sound of it.

The two bore down on Megatronus, who stiffened at the sound of their footsteps—anyone, Soundwave knew, who had heard those footsteps echoing in the halls of the Pit would never forget them—and wove away from them in the crowd. Champion that he was, it was not commonly known that Megatronus had never signed up to gladiate. His work contract had been sold from the excavation company to the Pits for barely more than the cost of his components. His first fight, they had shoved him into the ring unarmed, alt-mode stripped from him. It was a death sentence with a price tag. He had been expected to die.

The bubble of the crowd parted between him and the textile merchant. One of the enforcers swung out with his crackling prod—there was a terrible sound of frying circuitry—and Rung’s extended leg caught on Megatronus’ shin armor and they both staggered and fell as Rung toppled back against him.

“Clumsy,” the real Rung observed, with barely concealed delight. One of the vehicons actually offlined their optics.

The jumble of them in the street was all gold and orange as Megatronus smoked and crackled. Rung clambered up onto the broad chest of Megatronus and gave him a concerned look. “Pardon me,” said the strangely far-away voice of Rung’s remembered self. “Are you alright, my dear?”

The red light of eyes flickered back to life. Megatronus pinched two fingers around Rung’s dorsal kibble and lifted him. Rung hung suspended in the air, absently brushing himself off, while Megatronus inspected him narrowly.  “Am _I_ alright?” the gladiator echoed.

Rung dropped, feline graceful, and landed square on the pavement. “You have to be more careful,” he said, “If you fell on your t-cog the wrong way, you could grievously injure your ability to transform. I was just telling Adaptus, the other millennia, I was saying—”

At that moment, the enforcers spun back all their plating and began to advance on Megatronus.

The setting of this event was slowly becoming familiar to Soundwave, one data point at a time. The pattern of scuffing, and the electrical damage—a match presented itself from the files of memory. This was the day that Megatronus had come back late into the dark cycle, smelling of expensive spices and a delicate exhaust that Soundwave would later come to associate with libraries, and not a single enforcer had said a word about his absence. And not long after, Megatronus would tell the rest of them—

In the street, standing over the prone Megatronus, Rung turned towards the sound of electrical crackling and all at once his delicate features flattened into cold disapproval.

“That was extremely rude,” he said, and marched right up to them, although they were head and shoulders taller than he. “Those components were not meant for bullying other bots. If you can’t use them responsibly, you shouldn’t use them at all.”

And then he caught the prod behind the tines and _ripped_ it loose from the forearm housing, with a blast of oil and bubbling fuel lines. The enforcer let out a howl that nearly shook the gravel on the pavement, staggering back, clutching his mutilated arm. Deep inside the housing it was sparking and gurgling with liquid, atmosphere corroding pieces of machinery which were never meant to see the light of day. Rung considered him for a moment, expressionless, and then gently pushed the broken weaponry into the grip of the second enforcer.

“That’s _impossible_ ,” Knockout was saying. “That component was part of the support structure for the entire limb, the force necessary to remove it like that—you pulled out the _entire_ _strut_ —”

The memory of Rung had already returned to Megatronus’ side, popping a medical panel and slipping one of his own slim plugs into the smallest of the four ports. All around the mess, Vehicons descended into panic. Several of them raced for the door, unwilling to watch any more of the scene. It was like seeing someone with their spark out, only it wasn’t just someone; it was the fierce and terrible master of the Decepticon army, scourge of a thousand battle fields. Even Soundwave found the moment uncomfortably intimate, for all that he had many times before seen Megatron in states of comparative vulnerability. Megatronus, sprawled on the ground, glared at the smaller bot.

It was the open street that made it all so difficult to reconcile. The open street and Rung’s reassuring hand, patting the spiked pauldron of a gladiator twice his size.

“You’re suffering from malnourishment,” Rung observed. “Your self-repair has been struggling to patch a wound on your lower back for several vorns—your titanium reserves are almost completely dry.”

Megatronus’ gaze darted furiously from one side of the street to the other, and it was obvious that he was thinking about the consequences of such a weak spot becoming common knowledge. Knowing Kaon, someone was already comming their bookie to lay bets on the next match.

“There is rarely a surplus of nourishment in the Pits,” Megatronus said, slowly but clearly. “Most of the _entertainers_ are concealing similarly substantive wounds.”

Ah. Ah yes. To shift the focus from himself, and to encourage the speculation of fans against his own rivals—it was not much of a consolation, but it would mitigate the brunt of the unfriendly attention.

Rung disconnected his diagnostic plug. “I can see I’ll need an office,” he said. In the projection of the memory, the third story window of an old spire lit up, and Rung turned to consider it from the street. “That will do,” he said.

There was a creak as Megatronus attempted to lever himself up, his vents spitting heavy smoke. Rung whirled on him, skittering back over to grip his shoulder.

“Oh no,” Rung said, “let me,” and then he took Megatronus by the hand and pulled him upright, as if the entire smoking gladiator weighed barely as much as a fine vase.

Knockout leaned in close to Soundwave and whispered, “Is he messing with us?”

 _Negative_ , Soundwave replied over the officers’ comm channel. _Rung: capable._

The real Rung, slightly brighter than the world he projected, was watching the streetside exchange with a profound fondness. As the memory of himself stepped back from the groaning hulk of Megatronus, he stepped forward into the projection. One set of hands synced with another—the body of one Rung swallowed the other, and then there was only a single glowing orange bot in the center of the whole dim world, the axis which a moment spun upon.

“Come with me,” Rung told Megatronus, his voice strangely resonant, a harmonic with himself.

Megatronus, narrow eyed and pulled in tight against himself, said, “To where?”

Rung grinned at him. “To have tea,” he said.

In perfect harmony with the projection, Rung flung open his fingers again, and then the city street streamed away like the white ribbons of stars dissolving into an interstellar launch, the stone and cement and market booths nothing but trails of data. A warp of some kind, although not one that a living mech should have.

All at once, they were inside of a dusty third story office.

Soundwave turned despite himself, fascinated to see the place in such an unlived in state. During his many visits it had always been lit with a warm rosy light, polished and shining like nothing in Kaon ever was, full of intricate knick-knacks displayed lovingly, regardless of their intrinsic value. A lump of volucite carved in the shape of a turbofox by a miner lucky enough to have found a vein in his excavation; a plate of etched steel so old that the etching was almost unrecognizable; an exquisitely forged set of stationary; ceramics, textiles, frivolous puzzles.

Now it was only dust and the plain expanse of a cheap desk, the shelves empty of their future citizenry. It wasn’t until Soundwave turned back that he realized that Megatronus had not left the projection at all. In fact, the gladiator was hunched in the corner, talons digging into the floor, ready to strike at the first sign of a threat.

“A bit of a fixer-upper,” Rung said, observing the dust with a critical eye.

“What kind of a trick is this?” Megatronus growled. “If you would have me dead, approach me head on like a warrior!”

But Rung was not paying him any attention. He was fiddling with the solvent tap at the back of the room, the slightly oxidized copper of a brew pot already settled at his elbow. “Give me a moment,” he said, as the tap finally gurgled to life. “I have a titanium ore that will substantially ease that gnawing in your tanks.”

Gently, Soundwave stepped forward and tapped Rung on the shoulder. His finger fizzled against the thin layer of hard light, and both the projection and the real Rung looked up simultaneously, straight into his visor. They smiled.

“No. Let us not linger in memory,” they both said, together, and even as Megatronus narrowed his eyes in confusion, the projection shattered into a storm of glowing motes.

That was the same morning then. The very same. And that evening Megatronus would return to the Pit smelling of expensive spices to announce that he had found a patron.

All around the mess, decepticons shook their heads and ruffled their plating, unnerved and blinded by the return of familiar violet light in the Nemesis. An ache of longing suffused Soundwave, as the same cold light washed over him too. Although those days had been hard and cruel, in the midst of the pitiless scrabbling there had been moments of almost intoxicating freedom. A visit to Rung’s office, a cup of tea—a willing audial, truth without fear of repercussions.

In a way, the bubble of Rung’s office had given rise to the entire revolution. Within its walls, they had learned how to speak their anger until it became the rumble of a planetary cataclysm, and Megatron—who had once been sold to die in an arena for the crime of having been found with literature in his possession—had bloomed like the scorching fire of an incendiary, taking all of Kaon with him into the light.

Anyone who was afraid of Rung because of his improbable strength, or his inexplicable abilities, was afraid of the wrong power entirely.

“What _is_ he?” Knockout muttered. He had pulled himself close against Sounwave’s side, as if in his bewilderment he had forgotten that Soundwave was the very instrument of espionage which had destroyed Airachnid not long before.

They watched Rung putter over at the dispensers together, and they watched as he accepted a shaking cube of energon from one of the soldiers. Soundwave wondered how to quantify that which he only barely understood: the living core of their homeworld, the transcendence of physical form, the dreamy eons of a geologic timescale. All of that, and also the sight of titanium ore dissolving into warm solvent as a bright voice hummed something at the window.

When Rung had left Kaon for good, he had taken much of the city’s warmth with him. Soundwave remembered quite clearly the look on the smaller bot’s face as Megatron—only Megatron, by then—had whirled on him in a snarl, denying his need for-

_Your tea, or your endless prattle, or your talk of compassion! The only compassion in this universe is the mercy of the kill!_

They had been in the office above the city, the three of them, as Megatron’s pacing left splotches of another mech’s oil across the floor. It was rare for Soundwave to accompany Megatron on one of these visits, but that night he had not dared allow Megatron to roam the streets without assistance. On Rung’s desk, the hardcopy of his new poem lay where he had scattered it, spattered with his oily fingerprints.

 _If you cannot grasp this,_ Megatron had growled, _you're of no more use to me than that wretched traitor Pax. In fact - if you aren't with me_ _, oh patron of mine_ _, you may consider yourself my enemy as well!_

The terrible blaze of Rung’s chest panel was what Soundwave remembered clearest. The rest of the memory file had corrupted even as it came into existence—what was said in the growing rattle of ceramic on the shelves, the lurch of the building shaking at its bolts, the look on Megatron’s face. What remained was only blue light, and the terrible vertigo. In that moment there was more than dumb mortal fear, more than spilt fuel and oil and pain: there was an enormity that might consume and incinerate them as effortlessly as the screaming smelter of the sun. 

The next thing he could recall was standing on the street of Kaon, looking up at the place where the spire office had been. Only empty sky remained, and the flash of a passing aircraft against the night.

A cube of fuel clinked against Soundwave’s forearm. When he reset his optical feed, Rung was standing in front of him offering the drink.

He took it numbly, thinking of efficiency, of fuel reserves. He must fuel to work. He must work to end this. The mantra that had carried Soundwave through the last several hundred years unspooled itself again in his core processor: the war will be over soon. Just a little longer. Just a little more.  

The energon glowed dully, earthy and unappetizing. In Kaon, it had rarely been fine quality, but it had always tasted like home.

Rung patted his hand. “Come and sit, my dear,” he said. “I think you will find that everything, eventually, works out alright. There is always time for tea.”

Soundwave looked up. He supposed that ultimately it was not only Kaon that Rung had left.

Cybertron was dark. The Well was dark. And out among the alien stars, alone, Rung walked in memory.


End file.
